


Lay Me Down

by laughablyunimportant



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Fade to Black, Fluff, I don't really know what to tag this okay, I just tagged it the way I did so that more people would be able to find it, Kink Meme, M/M, also to be clear it's just Davesprite and doomed John, petting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:50:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughablyunimportant/pseuds/laughablyunimportant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John just thinks his Dave's feathers are really soft, okay! And Dave's makes these little bird sound when he scratches just right--he's practically begging for it!</p><p>Dave wonders if John even knows what he's doing. </p><p>What's he saying, it's John. Of course he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [kink meme](http://homesmut.livejournal.com/12138.html?thread=23895146#t23895146)'s fill-a-thon.

          You've sort of been dreading this.

          When you bit the big one on Skaia, fire raining down on the battlefield around you, pulling Harley to you at the last second to fold her in your arms, face buried in her green-glowing hair—you thought that was it. Her fingers tightened on your arm, nails digging into, not flesh, but data-given-form, and you tried not to cry, because like hell were you going to be the one sobbing while Jade faced your impending doom with all the stoicism of a bad action hero. And hey, if an iridescent orange tear or two slid their way down your face, who could really tell what with the shades and the blood spatter and the meteor-from-hell barreling down at you from the sky?  
          No one, that's who.

          So, you died. In a burning inferno at the end of existence, you died. 

          Then, you woke up.  
          You didn't expect it, but it wasn't exactly unwelcome. What you really didn't expect was to learn you weren't the "real" Davesprite. But from what you could gather from the other bubbles you bumped into, yours was an offshoot timeline, one where Harley didn't godtier and basically save everyone's ass at the last second. You didn't think you could get more doomed than going back in time to become a half-bird half-binary _thing_ made you, but you've been wrong before.  
          So yeah. You're dead now. There's another you—not just another Dave, but another _you_ —out there, fulfilling your spritely duties or whatever. Like you give a fuck. Without all that saving the world crap on your plate, you've got time to do what Striders do best: chill. You've got photos of every memory you can pull up and form solid enough to get a snapshot of (though most of the photos fade out after a few minutes, attention wandering too much to keep the tiny details in-focus), examined more dead things than an ME, and mixed enough music to play from here to eternity.  
          You've also chilled with a couple other bubblemates. You run into lots of Daves, and a few Aradias. At first you keep your spriteform just to give you a uniqueness compared to the hordes of dead Daves running around, but after a while, you feel like it's the only skin you're really comfortable in. Maybe because of all the uncomfortable things it reminds you of.

          You haven't seen any Johns. Any Bros, either.  
          In a way, you're relieved.  
          And by "in a way," you mean, in every way.

          So when, in the middle of remixing "Yo Shorty" and "Wannabe" for the third time, you feel a bubble bump against yours and _stick_ , you shake off the feeling of familiarity that shivers down your back and hang up your headphones, winding down both tracks and shutting off your equipment.  
          A knock sounds from your front door, and before you can even think about opening it, a familiar voice is calling out "Dave! It's me, John! Hehe, don't worry, I'm a doomed John. You guys always flip out about that. You might have already, I've already sort of met a lot of you? I'm the one Terezi killed, well, if you know who Terezi is, which you…probably…" He trails off when you float into the living room, white eyes getting big behind his glasses. He's in the white suit his dad gave him, complete with a white fedora he must have remembered pretty strongly to form up and wear, but you remember him in his teal ectosuit, burned and too-still.  
          You hover in the doorway, lips pressed tight and hands clenched into fists at your sides. You probably look furious. You hope you do, because the other options are terrified, ashamed, and sobbing-like-a-baby.  
          "Sup," you say.  
          "What happened to you?" The question seems to burst out of him, and then he's moving, taking one, two, five steps toward you, and then stopping right in the middle of your living room. You float out to him, wishing for a second you had some legs just so you could shove your hands in your pockets, but then it hits you what he said, and you're glad in a small, vindictive sort of way, that he's seeing you like this. Something stirs in you, and you can feel your wing stump throb like it hasn't in a while, knowing that soon it's going to start dripping blood like it did when you first crossed over.  
          "Oh, you know," you say, voice a little tight, but even in pitch. "My best bro let some blind alien chick talk him into facing an unbeatable boss, got himself killed. What's a guy to do but go back in time and save his ass? And then hell, why not become a half-bird game construct, maybe let Harley indulge her furry kick in between slaying some serious carapace ass and basically winning the whole game without even trying. I think orange is sort of my color. Brings out the shade of my everything."  
          He's still staring at you, the only change as you spoke his lips parting and mouth slowly dropping open. "You're _my_ Dave?" he croaks out. He reaches a hand up and you stiffen without meaning to, staring him down until he lowers it, biting his lip as his brows bunch up in confusion.  
          "Yeah." You give him a jerky nod, trying to ignore the twinge of guilt, the throbbing of your wing, the way he's making you _feel_ in a way you haven't since April 12, 2009. "I'm the Dave from your timeline." (Sort of, anyway.)  
          He's chewing his lip even harder now, and you can't be sure with his eyes whited out, but you think his gaze is maybe darting all around, unable to meet your own. He mumbles something, and when you tell him to speak up, you think his eyes are watering when he manages a quavering "I'm sorry, god, Dave, I'm _so_ sorry."  
          "Hey, don't cry," and then you're drawing him close to you and fuck, how long has it been since you've held someone? How long has it been since you _touched_ someone? Not counting the brief fistbumps with your alternate selves, you're pretty sure Harley was the last, right before the both of you got crushed by a bigass flaming rock. So John feels awkward in your arms, taller than you expected (though hovering just a few inches higher fixes that), bigger and solid and deceptively, heart-breakingly _alive_.  
          "I'm sorry," he mumbles some more, and you give him a little pat on the head, not sure what else to do. His arms go around to the back of your neck, and you stiffen again, jerking away. He looks at you blankly for a second, two, three, and then it's like a flipped switch, a twitch of his mouth and he's flat-out bawling, face hidden behind hands and shoulders shaking as he makes these pathetic little mewling sounds.  
          "Shit, fuck, dude, stop it, hey, you can touch me, it's okay, just, stop crying, please."  
          He pulls his hands from his face to look at you, dry eyes a shock, but not as big a one as the mischievous smile practically splitting his face. "Oh really?" Oh _fuck_. You recognized that tone. That was his pranking tone.  
          Even warned, you didn't put up much of a fight. He threw himself at you, and you put more effort into catching him and breaking his fall than trying to dodge. His hands dove into the ruff of feathers at your neck and you twitched, but managed not to jerk away from him. He chuckles, breath soft and warm on your face, and you decide it's worth it. Then his fingers start stroking your feathers, and you shudder, face twisting in unease. He frowns and lets up, settling back until it's you on your back on your living room floor, Egbert straddling where your waist would be if you were still human, weight on his ankles and arms loose at his sides.  
          "You okay?" he asks, and you sigh, looking straight up at the ceiling. "Sure Egbert, fuckin' cooler than the dark side of the moon, and have you been there 'cause I have and it's cold as fuckin balls."  
          He pokes you square in the chest. "Daaaaaaaave. I know I screwed up, and I'm feeling stuff about it, and you're probably feeling stuff about it, and who knows how long the overlap will last, so—"  
          "What." You look at him then, and he startles, caught mid-word.  
          "Oh, well?" He tilts his head at you. "I mean, I've bumped into a lot of bubbles, and the time when they break off varies a lot? So I don't, really want to waste time, in case of sudden departure? Because I don't know when I'll see you again, and this is kind of important."           You stare up at him, not sure which of those points to address first. That he thinks he screwed up (and he did, he fucked everything up that stupid little shit it made you so angry you just wanted to die of shame, because you let him mess up that bed, what were you doing), that he's been floating around out here all alone and upset about it, or that he'd called you important, in a roundabout way.  
          You decide none of the above. "So what do you want to do?"  
          He smiles at you, something different about it this time, softer and a little younger, somehow. "I always kind of wanted to see your roof."


	2. Chapter 2

          The sun's baking the roof under your feet, but you can't help grinning, staring up into the blazing orb in the sky, brighter and hotter than it ever seemed in Washington. You can feel the heat folding around you, air currents hot and heady in the illusion of Houston that Dave's conjured up just for you, but it doesn't really weigh you down the way it would have on real Earth, back when you were alive. The city's not like anything you've ever seen, and at the same time, you feel like you know it, just by knowing Dave. You spin around to face him, still hovering near the door that let you both out on the roof, grin splitting your face. "This is really cool."  
          He drifts over, one shoulder lifting and dropping in a lazy shrug, a drop of iridescent orange dripping from the bloody stump of a wing on his back and plopping to sizzle on the roof. You frown. "Why is it bleeding like that?"  
          He glances over his shoulder before giving another shrug. "Me and Bro fought Noir."  
          "Didja win?" You ask, and then almost immediately regret it. You can't pin down what's different, but you've definitely upset him somehow. "Sorry, I mean—"  
          He puts up a hand, waving you off. "Do I look like I won?" You give him a sheepish grin and, after an awkward pause, ask, "Can I touch it?"  
          He gives you a look, but you know he can't say no without losing face, so you give him your best innocent expression and wait for the nod before bouncing over, hands going straight for his feathers. He tenses again, but this time you ignore him, having obtained permission, and run your fingers along the broken wing, an inch from the ragged bleeding edge. Some of the orange liquid oozing out gets on your fingers, and you pull them back, examining for a second before touching a fingertip to your tongue.  
          "Dude." You look up to find Dave staring at you, eyes actually a little wide in shock, and feeling your prankster's gambit on the rise, you put two whole fingers in your mouth, sucking the blood off while he watches. You chuckle at the scandalized look he gives you, pulling your fingers out with a wet pop and going back to stroking his broken wing. It doesn't taste bad, really! Kind of cool, and metallic, like if you worked a quarter around in your mouth or something. Your fingers skip over to Dave's healthy wing, running down the length of feathers, humming as you go. You can feel him shaking a little, but that's just silly! Definitely time for a distraction.  
          "So how'd you end up a bird, anyway?"  
          He's quiet for a while, and you wonder if you've hit another sore spot until he speaks up. "So, before the game started, right? These crows were getting all up in my grill, just wouldn't leave my ass alone. And one of them starts messing with the beta disk, so I…sort of threw a sword through it."  
          You pause, spinning Dave around to face you. "What??"  
          He brushes you off, hands raised, voice defensive. "Like I was going to just let it take off with the disc you were telling me I needed to save Rose's life."  
          You look at him over your glasses. "I thought you said you had to fight your Bro for his copy?"  
          He shrugs. "Yeah well. Unexpected shit happened. But I handled it. And look, resurrected the bird and let it share my totally rad body and everything."  
          He looks a little serious and uncomfortable, so you do what any good friend would do: you bop him on the nose.  
          "Dude." He blinks at you, all indignation, and you can't help laughing at his little orange face with his orange nose and his orange freckles and his orange glasses so you just, reach up and take them.  
          Your hands curve around the metal frames, unhooking them from over his ears and drawing them off his face in one motion. You wanted to look at them, but your hands brush the side of his face, sweeping a lock of hair right into his eyes, and when you brush it back and tuck it behind his ear, fingers ghosting over skin, he gives a soft "Caw" you just can't let slide by unremarked.  
          "Caw?" If you didn't know any better, you'd say that was a blush rising to his cheeks, a sort of deepening instead of darkening of color.  
          "Shut up," he mumbles, and you can tell he's embarrassed, so of course you reach up a hand and do it again, fingers going from the center of his forehead to back behind his ear, lingering in his hair just enough to muss it up a little. Then there's nothing for it but to muss up the other side, and smooth it all down, running both hands over and through his hair, sunglasses tucked away in your sylladex as Dave caws and chirps, pushing into your touch a little.  
          You smile. "See, it's not so bad, right?"  
          "You should stop." But you don't really want to stop. His voice sounds soft and a little low, like maybe he's tired, and none of the other Daves let you touch them like this. You keep stroking at his hair, waiting to see if he'll object again, and Dave closes his eyes, head bowing a little.  
          You don't know why this pleases you, but it does. Making a hum of satisfaction, you work your way around, long strokes bringing you to his neck, scratching lightly just above his ruff of feathers. He makes a series of little chirps, sort of folding to the ground, and you go with him, settling his pliable form into your lap in a move that kind of reminds you of your dad, holding you when you were younger. You run your fingers deep, scratching along under the surface, right where the pinions meet skin, marveling as he melts into you that something so soft can be a part of Dave.   
          "Egbert," he says, and it's quiet, more a sigh than a sentence, "Stop…" But he gives another chirp right after, and you don't want to.  
          Your hands go 'round his chest, following the lines of feathers to his front and scratching gently to earn you more chirps. He moves, head turning to look at you over his shoulder, eyes open and half-lidded now, and you flash him a smwhat  
          what  
          WHAT  
          why is dave kissing you  
          what is happening why are there lips on yours what who is he going to what but why you just you weren't _why is dave kissing you_


	3. Chapter 3

          Egbert's still when you press your lips to his, so you take the opportunity to twist in his lap, turning and wriggling until you're facing him head-on, tail wrapped around his waist for stability (and if the tip just happens to rest between Egbert's thighs, stroking him through fabric and twitching spasmodically, well, he started it). One of your hands goes up to tangle in his hair, but before you can tighten your grip and maybe work his lips open with your tongue, Egbert's hands have gone to your shoulders and are pushing you back, forcing you to part from him and look him in the eyes.  
          Like hell.  
          You shrug off his grip and lean forward, this time going for the length of his neck, kissing and sucking hungrily at skin until he shudders against you, voice breathy and halting above you. "Woah, Da, ah, Dave, what are you, nn, doing?"  
          That's actually a pretty good question, what _are_ you doing? You're pressed flush to John, biting at the outer shell of his ear, and you can't pretend that you're not aware of the way your tail is rubbing against the bulge in his pants, wrapped around him as best it can be when he's trapped by cloth. Actually, now that you think about it…The tip of your tail phases through his pants, curling around him directly and giving a soft squeeze.  
          He squeaks then, and starts to push you away again, but it turns into another pet halfway through, stroking through your hair and down your neck in a way that makes your pulse race. "S-stop," he quavers. "Dave, calm, hnnnn, calm down. Stop it."  
          You pull yourself away with great difficulty, panting and torn between wanting him to stop and wanting him to keep petting you forever. You try to tell him as much, but all that comes out is a low warble, and you end up bowing your head again, thoughts fuzzy and thick but knowing you _need something_ from him.  
          He runs a hand over your head again and you shiver. Does he even know what he's doing? Do you know what he's doing? You get a flash of memory that you realize is the crow's, another bird nudging its head against yours until both of your hearts are racing and you—oh  
           _oh_  
          "John, this is a, a bird thing." You raise your head and he's looking at you with glassy eyes, face flushed and lips parted in a way that just makes you want to dive in and capture them with your own.  
          "A bird thing?" he asks, and his voice is a little husky and you can't help giving him another stroke down below. His eyes flutter and he leans forward a little to bump into you, breath hitching.  
          You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. "It's, uh. The petting. It's turning me on."  
          He asks, "Is that a bad thing?" a little smile tugging at his lips and oh shit, is he asking what you think he is?  
          Your silence stretches a little too long, and his smile falters. "Oh, fuck, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Dave, I didn't—"  
          You put a hand over his mouth and he cuts off, eyes wide and a little scared. "I've got no problem with where this thing was headin'. But there's no stopping the Stridemachine once it gets rolling. You sure you can handle this swag?" You mean that you've thought about kissing him since the moment you found him too-still and smoking and realized you couldn't. You mean that he gets you so hot you can't help yourself. You mean god, fuck yes Egbert, please keep this going, please want this as much as I do.  
          A hand wraps around your wrist and pushes you away. "You're a dork," he says, and you open your mouth to make a retort but he scratches along your feathers again and you whine and decide, maybe you can let it slide.

          He gets you fired up so fast that you're grinding and writhing against him inside a minute, and he's not much better, trembling fingers grasping at you as you unbutton his suit, placing kisses on his skin as you bare it inch by inch. At some point he remembers that things are only as real as he wants them to be, and his clothes disappear altogether. You don't hesitate at all, sinking down to take his length in your mouth, hands in your hair egging you on. He comes in your mouth almost too soon, and you're not sure whether to feel smug or disappointed.  
          You crawl up to lay alongside him, and he gives you an embarrassed grin before running a hand down your side. "Uh, sorry. I'll be good to go again soon. Your turn?"  
          Your face falls. "I. Not sure if you've noticed, but I'm sort of missing some key elements here."  
          His face scrunches up. "But you said you were getting turned on, right?"  
          You look down, running a hand across his chest. "Yeah, spriteship's sort of crap like that. Can we just drop it?"  
          He pushes himself up on one elbow. "But that's not fair. I'm the one that got you worked up to begin with. You have to let me try at least."  
          You suppress a sigh. To be honest, you're still ready to go. But you're sort of stuck without a cock here, and there's not much you can do. You know from experience that trying is just sort of frustrating.  
          You give him a shrug anyway. "Sure, whatever."

          He pushes himself up to hover over you, trailing kisses down your abdomen until he crosses from your waist to your tail, licking and sucking where you're pretty sure your crotch would be if you still had one. His hands hook onto your hips, and that earns another little gasp from you, then tongue-tickling skin and oh fuck, there's nothing there to suck ut _fuck_ it feels good. You not sure where in hell he got it from, but something tells you that if only you had something for him to prove it on, John would demonstrate himself to be the blow-job king.  
          John seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he pulled back then, a sigh of frustration tickling across your skin. "This would be a lot easier if you could just, not be a sprite."  
          "Yeah, well sorry I can't just—" you cut off your snark mid-sentence.  
          Holy shit.  
           _Holy shit._  
           "Egbert, you're a genius," you breathe.  
           "I am?" He looks vaguely pleased, but confused. His confusion clears up when reality envelops you in static for a second, then retreats, revealing you in another form—naked, two legs, and straining between them, your hard cock. Your hard, human cock. From back when you were, you know, human.  
           John looks up at you with something approaching awe, and you'd laugh if you weren't feeling about the same way right now. This could work. This could actually, _really_ work.  
           John grins, the sort of uncontrollable, wild one that makes him look like a rockstar about to blow out the speakers in a state-of-the-art stadium. You'd roll your eyes, but you're mostly preoccupied with how that translates into how he's going to rock your world (ironic cliché fully intended).

           Ten minutes of world-rocking later, and the both of you are lying on the roof, the sun mysteriously sunk from high-noon to the horizon, painting everything in shades of gold and red and long spindly shadows. One of Egbert's arms shifts to wrap around you a little more tightly, and you tug him up until his head is resting on your chest, rising and falling with shallow breaths in the afterglow of all that exertion. He lifts his head a little to look at you, glasses slip-sliding down his nose and hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.  
           "What," you ask.  
           "I am _totally_ a genius," he says, and you can't help it, laughter bubbles out of you, airy and light as it rises into the nothingness-shaped-like-sky above you, mingling with the puffy clouds you formed just for him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to DaystoDawn, who helped me edit and tinker to get it right!


End file.
